One of the local dishes is the fried banana that you may admire below.
It’s good, it’s sweet, it’s fried and oily and wouldn’t be welcomed at the annual lunch of the World association of nutritionist.
Fried food is common on the Ivorian table, banana, igname, potatoes and any sort of meat.
Sometimes, to have a break, I have dinner with an apple.
OK, here is Africa, therefore it’s hot. But until now the weather was kind, not warm not fresh, and it was understandable to expect the same for the following weeks.
But not. It is hot, perhaps not as hot as in N’djamena, neither as some months in Cambodia, but quite hot. Hottish.
Luckily my new car (I have got it now, see it below) has got la clim, so that, challenging the notorious weakness of my throat, I can survive. So far.
Thursday night I invited the friends out for dinner, to celebrate the purchase of my new car.
We went to the Lebanese restaurant and the food was very good. We had chicken marinated in garlic and lemon, the meze and some desserts.
The place was nice, the people pleasant and everything was OK.
Except for the fact that I had no new car.
After a long wait, and having in my hands the car’s documentation and the photocopy of the owner’s ID with photo, I noticed that that man was not the same I had in front of me.
He said he was a representative, I could speak with his wife, I could visit his home.
Surprised for my surprise the man left to get hold of the owner.
They are not back, so far.
Mr. Bonaventura was a character of Italian cartoons at the beginning of 1900. The stories ended usually with the protagonist getting a one million cheque for same reason (later on, with inflation, it became a one billion cheque).
Bonaventura best friend was a mule, called la Checca who’s main feature was an irresistible impulse to kick anything at reach.
I had a book with some of those stories and I read it many times.
And this is my version of Mr. Bonaventura.
PS I realise now that I was confusing Mister Bonaventura with another character, ‘Fortunello’. He was the friend of the mule, but my sketch is rather inspired to Mr. Bonaventura, the ‘millionaire’.
That’s the first thought. They were doing something decent.
In a country were me, as many others, would not go for ‘political’ reasons (and we are not so intransigent anymore) and for security reasons, they went for a good cause and stayed in spite of the risk.
Let’s hope reason would prevail.
PS it has
At the market most of the women still wear the colourful pagnes, contributing to an extraordinary human patchwork.
Nevertheless, also here the local manufacture of cotton fabric is endangered by the cheap productions from Asia, often under the administration and property of European companies.
Faso Fani the legendary factory of Thomas Sankara’s land of incorruptibles has been closed under the pressure of the stabilisation policies enforced by the international economic institutions.
Consequently, Africa loose not only one of the rare opportunity for industrial production (and jobs) but also an important instrument for the construction of national identity.
Togo, Malawi and many other countries do not produce any cotton fabric yet.
Abidjan market’s retailers react with surprise when asked for local materials, and only Woodin, an upper market production destined to a wealthy public, has got some reputation.
You may see some exemple below.
One month has passed without harms. I do not know better the town neither the people, but I keep feeling at ease.
Today is raining and I have not solved any of the logistical issues I should have tackled, I hope tomorrow the sun will shine.
I have some projects, but any program requires energies.
One task has been accomplished. I am the happy owner of a ping pong table (with a carton-paper net).
woro woro is the yellow taxi.
It’s the collective one, goes on prefixed routes, claxoning all the time to attract passengers.
You pay among 150 and 250 CFA francs, not too much.
It is better than the orange taxi (the personal one), as you travel with other people and feel more inside the picture.
The other day the woro woro drivers organized a strike to protest against the police. Police (allegedly) take advantage of the check points and the verification of documentation to ask for money.
Abidjan seems to be a good place where to stay.
This season is always cloudy and not very hot, so that the onset is smoother.
The town is westernised, but I got the impression that are there places and things to discover.
Of course, there are militaries on the road, check-points and the ‘traffic managers’ are heavily armed, but, all considered, the atmosphere is quiet.
I still didn’t get to know the people, but there should be no problem.
I’m looking for an accommodation, furniture, may be a car.
The Ivorian flag is everywhere, similar to the Italian one, but with orange instead of red.
I went to the National Assembly, a nice space. The debate was harsh but ordered.
I am watching for fabrics, they produce a lot of them, and looking for a tie tailor, for the new collection.
I am happy I was born in Lucania. It is a small region in the South of Italy, quiet and still undomesticated.
Picerno is not the smartest village, but the air is fresh, the food is good, and just in front of it lies the Monte Li Foi, surrounded by woods.
Our house is just on the piazza, where life goes on regardless.
All the characteristic figures are disappeared: the goats’ shepherd, the lady wearing the traditional costume, Mastro Vicienzo the local inventor.
The countryside has changed dramatically, especially after the earthquake.
I generally come on Christmas, sometimes in summer, once I came by motorbike.
Today there is a balmy, congenial sunlight.
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